oh doctor doctor
by throamthottie1000
Summary: i know i should stop stealing off ao3 but i cant


Work Text:

Brendon was a creature of habit. Every day he got up, showered if he had time, and was out the door exactly forty minutes before his shift started, twenty of which he spent in traffic, and ten in Starbucks picking up coffee for Jon and himself. He walked into the foyer of the hospital right on time every day, to the extent that whichever Alex was at the front desk wouldn't even bother to look up before he said, "Hey, Brendon."

He hadn't always been so used to and happy in a routine, but working in a hospital kind of forced him into it, and he didn't mind so much. He was busy all day, and it was easier to get things done if he left slacking off to his free days. At the hospital, his day was divided carefully into patients, paperwork, seeking Jon and Spencer out for five minute chats, and watching Ryan Ross. Unfortunately, due to time constraints, the last two often had to be combined.

"So," Jon said, kicking his legs against the desk lightly. "Any particularly reason why we're eating lunch in the outpatients?"

"I like the atmosphere," Brendon said. Across the room, Ryan had an expression of poorly concealed disgust as he beckoned a mother and her retching toddler into Exam Room One.

"Uh huh," Jon said. "I can see how all the suffering kids and Portacaths and stuff really do it for you."

"I'm a man of simple pleasures," Brendon said, and sighed when Ryan closed the door behind him. "He can't examine kids with the door open? Jeez."

"Yeah, shocking how unwilling he is to contravene ethics," Jon said, and then jumped back onto the floor. "Come on. We've only got five minutes until our break's over, and I want some fresh air. He won't be back out in time."

"Are you kidding?" Brendon was horrified. Had years of Ryan-watching taught Jon _nothing_? "It's a kid, Jon. He hates kids, he'll be back out in, like, two minutes."

Jon grimaced. " _Brendon_ ," he said, and Brendon sighed again, and slid down regretfully from the desk, picking up his third hot chocolate of the day from where it had been sitting beside him. He'd been at work since six that morning, and the day wasn't half over yet, and sugar was almost as good as caffeine, and with the bonus that it didn't make Brendon get headaches if he drank too much.

He spared one last glance over his shoulder on their way out, but Ryan still hadn't emerged. Jon grinned, and patted him on the shoulder. "Buck up, kid," he said.

"Don't call me kid," Brendon grumbled.

It wasn't a huge thing. "It's not like I'm pining or anything," Brendon told Jon and Spencer, even if he kind of was pining, in a suave, non-pathetic manner. It didn't actually influence his life a huge deal anymore, apart from in deciding where he and Jon sat for lunch. It was just that on his first day in the oncology department of the hospital six years ago, he'd been introduced to Dr Ryan Ross, Head Surgeon, and fallen stupidly and irrevocably in love with him, and that, apparently, was that.

Since then, a lot of things had happened; like Brendon reaching attending level of the paediatric oncologist department and being ridiculously busy and exhausted all the time, but in the best way possible, and finally fixing things up with his parents, to the extent that they were even icily polite to Shane on occasion. Other things, too, like Ryan dating a steady stream of pretty blonde nurses, and Brendon and Jon deciding that Ryan's best friend, also a surgeon, was awesome, and that Ryan should share him, and as a result of that Ryan spending time with them as a group now and then. Despite all that, Brendon never really got around to falling out of love with Ryan. It wasn't as though he had any amazing love affairs waiting for him to just notice them, and anyway, Brendon thought that Ryan was pretty amazing all on his own, in a hopeless, never-going-to-happen kind of way. He had a feeling that falling out of love with Ryan might be considerably harder than falling in love with him. Brendon was content to pine from afar.

Besides, it was almost painfully clear that Ryan wasn't interested. Any attempt Brendon had made over the years had been steadily rebuffed, and Ryan appeared to regard him entirely with indifference tempered by annoyance. Brendon had gotten over the initial sting of that, too. He stopped trying to talk to Ryan around the hospital, and when Ryan went out with Brendon, Spencer and Jon, Brendon didn't force Ryan to interact with him. He was sure Ryan knew about the whole stupid thing – _everybody_ knew about it – but that didn't give Brendon free allowance to flirt, he knew, especially when Ryan had remained firmly aloof for years. Even this had patterns, certain rules and guidelines that Brendon was good at following. It made life considerably simpler, if a little wistful.

Brendon was happy, too. He had a good job, awesome friends, and a comfortable life. His profession was respectable enough for his parents to be speaking to him again, and if he was going to be in unrequited love with someone, he had a feeling that Ryan Ross was kind of perfect. The view from where Brendon was standing was pretty good.

"It's my favourite girl!" Brendon called when he got back to his office. Lucy grinned up at him, big and bright, and reached her arms up for a hug. She squeezed him back tighter than usual, and Brendon found himself grinning uncontrollably. "Look how long your hair is getting," he said, tugging on one small braid. "It's almost touching your shoulders."

Lucy nodded solemnly. "Mom wants me to get it cut," she said, and beside her, Diane rolled her eyes and made a helpless gesture at Brendon.

"Just a trim," she said.

"I won't do it," Lucy said severely. "I'm going to grow it long enough to sit on."

"That sounds like an admirable goal to me," Brendon agreed. "Shall we go into my office?"

Lucy hopped off the chair – she was still a little too small, her seven year old legs not quite reaching the floor – and led the way, Diane and Brendon following behind her.

"The latest meds are working really well," Diane told him in a low voice. "No more vomiting, and she's sleeping properly again. She still gets nightmares, but at least she's not exhausted anymore."

"Great," Brendon said. "The nightmares might not even be a side effect of the drugs – she's had a rough couple of years. Keep an eye out if they get particularly awful, though."

"Will do," Diane said. She hesitated, pausing just outside the door where they could see Lucy helping herself to the jellybeans Brendon kept on his desk, twirling around in his spinning chair and picking up a discarded stethoscope with a mischievous glance back at them. "Doctor – she's talking about starting school in the new year. She's very persistent, and I really want her to be able to start some form of normal life, but I'm not sure, all the same."

"Christmas is still a month away." Brendon looked at Lucy, her dark head thrown back as she gazed solemnly at the ceiling and whirled slowly around on Brendon's chair. "Her leukaemia's in remission, the drugs are working, she looks happy and stronger. With regular check-ups, I don't see why you couldn't enrol her for the January term."

Diane's eyes shone. Brendon was used to people crying, but Diane just took in a deep breath and nodded. "Okay," she murmured. "That's – okay."

Brendon touched her shoulder lightly. "You've done a good job," he said quietly. "She's a really happy kid. You've done a great job." Diane smiled at him and he continued into the room, clapped his hands. "Why, who's this lovely young doctor?"

Lucy giggled. "Hello, sir," she said, in as dignified a manner as she could carry off. "What can I do for you today?"

"Bandaid, please," Brendon said gravely, holding up his finger with a small red paper cut on it. Lucy looked momentarily worried, but then Brendon stage-whispered, "Second drawer," and she procured a Dorothy the Dinosaur one, taping it over Brendon's finger with her bottom lip sucked between her teeth.

Brendon flexed his finger. "Much better," he decided, and then grinned at her. "Now, Doctor, I don't suppose you've seen a young patient of mine? Chinese, wearing a pink sweater? I need to poke her with some needles for a while."

Lucy made a face. "Oh, really?" she asked. "Do I _have_ to?"

"Hey, you're the one who wants to go to school," Brendon said, and watched her brighten.

Spencer came in barely seconds after Lucy and her mother had gone, clutching two paper cups in his hands. He passed one to Brendon and said, "You've got to learn one day not to get so attached."

"One day," Brendon agreed, and sipped at his drink, making a face. It was the gross cafeteria stuff.

"I'm serious," Spencer said. "The last time Lucy crashed, you went around looking half-dead yourself."

"Jeez, Spencer, I can't hold up in the face of all this flattery," Brendon said. "I just don't think you're the boyfriend type. Maybe some casual sex, though."

Spencer groaned. "You're impossible," he said. "Alright, what have you got for me?"

Brendon rummaged under the paper strewn carelessly across his desk for a handful of charts, handing them across the table. "Only three today," he said. "Liver, liver, heart."

Spencer flipped through them quickly. "That last one for Ryan, obviously," he said decisively. "You're going to talk to him about it today?"

"Yeah, the echo showed a cardiac myxoma. It probably needs to be resected," Brendon said. His cheeks turned slightly pink. "He's in his office, right? Are you headed that way? You could take the chart over."

Spencer looked at him, half amusement and half pity. "I don't know," he said dryly. "On the one hand, I wouldn't want to rob you of any kind of legitimate excuse for you to talk to Ryan. On the other, the last time you did, you managed to break half of the stuff in his office in one – spectacular, or so I'm told – trip."

Brendon scowled, and snatched the file back. "I'll do it," he said. "Get out of my office, douche."

"Yes, sir," Spencer said, saluting. He ambled out and then paused at the door. "Lucy looks good, Brendon."

Brendon beamed. "I know," he said. "See? Nothing to worry about."

"This time," Spencer said, oddly gentle. "Be careful."

"I'm always careful," Brendon said cheerfully.

"Hmmn," Spencer said, and left.

Ryan didn't look up when Brendon knocked. His door was halfway open, so Brendon knew he wasn't interrupting, but he hesitated a moment before knocking again, a little firmer this time. Ryan still didn't look up, but he frowned a little and said, "Come in."

Brendon did, trying hard not to bounce on his way (bouncing had caused the horrible tripping incident last time, and Brendon was careful not to repeat his mistakes). "Hi, Ryan," he said, and Ryan finally, _finally_ looked up.

"Oh," he said. "Hello." He was still frowning a little, a tiny crease between his eyebrows, but Brendon chose to believe that that was a reaction to the paperwork in front of him, not Brendon's presence.

"Got a referral for you," Brendon said, handing over the file. "Lewis Jefferson. He's a ten-year old boy with a three month history of intermittent pyrexia and weight loss of twenty pounds. Exam revealed stage two finger clubbing and altered heart sounds. His ESR is 70. We suspected endocarditis but the echo didn't show any new murmur - but it did reveal a potential myxoma. He has a positive family history on the paternal side. I - that is, my team and I - think he's a candidate for surgical resection."

"Ten's pretty young for open heart surgery," Ryan said. "Are you sure?"

Brendon forced his smile to stay true. Obviously, he liked Ryan a whole lot, but he wished that Ryan hadn't picked up this habit of implying that Brendon liked rushing into things. "Yes," he said, and Ryan nodded, putting the file to the side.

"Okay," Ryan said. "I'll give his details to my secretary."

"Thanks," Brendon said, and stood up. At the doorway he paused, biting his lip, and said in a rush, "I don't know if you want to, but on Friday, Spence and Jon and I are going to see the new James Bond movie, and if you liked—"

"I hate James Bond," Ryan said. His gaze was unreadable, and Brendon wished quietly that he could master that expression, too. He could _feel_ his face fall, and that in turn made him flush red.

"Okay," he said, edging out of the room. "Seeya, Ryan."

On Thursday, Brendon realised with dawning hope around five o'clock that he was nearly done. Barely daring to breathe, he got discharges completed, crept down the hall to drop them off on Pete's desk, thanking God that Pete wasn't with some last minute admission to do, and snuck out the back entrance.

He checked his phone on the way to his car. It was 5:27. He didn't think he'd been out this early after an eight o'clock start in nearly a year. Even walking across the carpark he was a little nervous that someone was going to shout for him, and it wasn't until he turned out onto the main road that he let himself breathe out. He wasn't on call, and unless there was a genuine emergency amongst his patients – unlikely, in the cancer ward – he was free until eight AM tomorrow.

He stopped off at the supermarket on his way home, determined to get some fresh food for once. He wasn't a great cook, but he made a pretty awesome pasta sauce, and he hadn't eaten something that wasn't defrosted or cooked by someone else for a long time. At the checkout, he beamed at the middle-aged woman working there, and bought himself a bottle of wine at the liquor store next door, too, and a tub of the ridiculously overpriced, amazing ice cream that he liked best. He smiled hugely at everyone there, too, and thought about home, and channel-surfing, and the siren call of ten hours sleep. Brendon's life was amazing.

At home, he texted Jon with _haha guess where i am_ in order to properly gloat, and made the pasta sauce while listening to The Beach Boys, dancing around his kitchen and singing as loud as he liked. When he'd first moved out of home, after telling his parents about Shane, he'd ended up living in a crappy apartment with paper-thin walls that he kept all the way through med school. His first apartment in Chicago hadn't been much better, and after he and Shane had broken up, the second had been much the same, although at least he'd gotten Jon out of that one. Now, he still wasn't used to being able to comfortably afford not only a place of his own, but a _good_ place. The landlord was nice and didn't regard him with dark suspicion every time they spoke, and he didn't even know his next door neighbours' names, let alone what they sounded like having sex.

He moved to the couch in sweatpants minus underwear and an old t-shirt with his dinner, and flicked around until he found an old episode of _House_. Spencer sometimes wondered in disbelief how Brendon could bear to work all day in a hospital and then go home and watch TV about working all day in a hospital, but Brendon liked the humour of it, and a little bit of the glamour. When people died, a sad song played and then the credits rolled. Besides, Hugh Laurie was awesome. He did not remind Brendon of anyone, Jon was a filthy rotten liar.

He stayed up later than he had planned, eating his ice cream straight out of the tub, and it was nearly midnight when his doorbell rang. Brendon blinked, and didn't move for a moment – Jon sometimes came around late at night, but Jon had his own key. Spencer was working the late shift tonight, Brendon knew, and Shane usually rang when he was on his way over. The doorbell buzzed again, more insistent this time, and then somebody rapped quickly, almost urgently, on the door.

He stood up and went to answer it, wishing that he had at least put jeans on when he got home, instead of the sweatpants with the elastic all worn out, constantly slipping down his hips. He tugged them up firmly and looked through the peephole. Then he blinked and took a hurried, stumbling step backward, because Ryan Ross was just outside his door, arms folded and pacing a little.

Brendon spared one last, regretful look down at his appearance, and then opened the door. "Hey," he said, and Ryan spun around. Brendon sucked in a breath; Ryan looked _awful_ , his hair sticking up in every direction, face shadowed, eyes wild. Brendon really, really hoped that he hadn't driven himself over. "Shit," he said, and reached out a tentative hand before withdrawing it, not quite trusting himself to touch. "You okay?"

Ryan nodded stiffly. "Can I come in?" he asked.

Brendon stepped aside, and Ryan came in with the same fast, jerky movements, like he wasn't quite sure how to use his body properly. Brendon had never seen Ryan anything but cool and controlled; now, he looked down, and saw that Ryan's hands, so clever and skilled in surgery, were shaking uncontrollably.

"Jesus," Brendon said, and shut the door behind him. "What happened?"

Ryan turned around but didn't respond; instead, he surged forward, pressed Brendon tight up against the door and kissed him.

Brendon tried to keep his brain from going into overdrive. Of all the explanations he could have begun to come up with upon finding Ryan at his door, this one was not a remote possibility. Brendon had long ago given up on the fantasy of Ryan realising one day that he was actually head over heels for Brendon, and he certainly didn't think that this was that – Ryan's mouth was hard and demanding, and he closed his hands on Brendon's hips and dug his nails into the skin.

"Hey," Brendon gasped, breaking away for a moment. "Come on, what is this—"

"Don't," Ryan said, and kissed him again, biting at Brendon's lips. "Don't, come on, I – you want this, don't you want this." This last a dirty mumble against Brendon's mouth and yes, yeah, Brendon wanted this, had wanted it since he first saw Ryan, and he was helpless to resist it when Ryan was rocking their hips together. Brendon sighed and tilted forward, sliding a hand up Ryan's face and into his hair, and Ryan made a strange, growling sound in his throat and curled his fingers in the hem of Brendon's t-shirt, tugging it up until Brendon pulled away and helped wrestle it off of his head.

"Where's your bedroom?" Ryan asked, voice rough, and oh, okay, wow, so they were definitely doing this, then. Brendon had always thought that if it ever happened, he'd go out on a stupid, cheesy date with Ryan first, play footsie under the table or make out in a movie theatre, but he had also been waiting and wanting for six years, and didn't intend things like a logical order to get in the way now. He pushed away from the wall, fumbling with the buttons on Ryan's work shirt and then his belt buckle, walking Ryan through the rooms, and Ryan helped, pulling his arms out and wriggling out of his pants. He caught Brendon by surprise when he pushed Brendon's sweatpants down, their mouths still caught in a kiss, Brendon's arms wound around Ryan's neck, as close as he could get. It was another shock to step forward and realise that Ryan had discarded his underwear somewhere along the line, their cocks brushing against each other and making them groan in unison.

In the bedroom, they stood and kissed for a while, Ryan's hands twin hot points on Brendon's hips, dragging him in as close as they could get. Then Ryan said, "I want to fuck you," his breath hot against Brendon's mouth, and Brendon turned his head slightly on a gasp, let Ryan suck hot kisses down the line of his throat, not quite hard enough. "Brendon," Ryan mumbled against his collarbone.

"Yeah, yeah, of course," Brendon said, breath coming out in pants, and Ryan smiled quickly up at him, reaching to squeeze Brendon's cock. Brendon made a strangled noise and then broke away, scrambling across his bed for the nightstand beside it, rummaging in the first drawer and sending up a quick, fervent prayer that the condoms hadn't expired. It had been a while, but whoever the God of Gay Sex was, He was clearly listening. "Okay," Brendon said, the words coming out in a garbled manner, "Okay, s'good, good to go," and then he turned around and Ryan was practically prowling towards him, eyes dark and hungry.

Brendon kneeled in the middle of the bed, and Ryan crawled towards him, face shadowed in the dim light. "Hi," Brendon whispered. Ryan gave him a confused look and Brendon flushed red and leaned in so as to sweep past that particular moment. Ryan kissed him back, and it wasn't quite as, uh, toothy as before, which was good because Brendon's mouth already felt swollen and tender. It was still forceful, though, Ryan licking into Brendon's mouth and moving forward slowly until Brendon was tipped flat on his back, legs spread beneath Ryan, and Ryan held himself above Brendon, one hand curled just lightly around the base of Brendon's cock, light enough to make Brendon groan and buck uselessly up into Ryan's hand.

Then Ryan shimmied down the bed, lube clasped lightly in one hand, and proceeded to slick up his stupidly long fingers and slide them into Brendon one at a time with unnerving precision. Brendon swore in a low, continuous breath, and writhed around for a moment before forcing himself to lie as still as possible. It was too hard, though, and he ended up pushing his hips up and pressing down on Ryan's fingers as much as he possibly could. Ryan gazed up at him with dark, intent eyes, mouth slightly parted as he watched Brendon react to each twitch of his fingers. He took his time, fucking Brendon with three fingers long past the point when he needed them, crooking them to the right spot while Brendon breathed in short, ragged bursts and finally begged, "I, please, _Ryan_."

Ryan reached for the condom and tore the foil packet open with only a little trouble from his slippery fingers before sliding it on and then crawling back up the bed, slicking his cock up further with one slow hand. Brendon dragged him down into a kiss, breathless and half-laughing, but Ryan answered with an almost dangerous force, reaching back to urge Brendon's legs up around Ryan's waist. Brendon kissed him again, wet and messy and too hard, all Brendon wanted, and Ryan stared down at him, moving so that their foreheads were pressed together. Then he twisted his hips away and back and, in one smooth motion, pushed inside Brendon completely, sliding past the initial resistance until their hips were pressed together. Ryan was trembling, Brendon noticed foggily.

"Fuck," Brendon mumbled and then continued, when Ryan looked slightly concerned and opened his mouth, "Please move, Ryan, please, I," and Ryan pulled back and slammed into him again. Brendon's back arched and he cried out, loud enough that he might be embarrassed later on, but he didn't have the space to think about it just then, not with Ryan fucking him in steady, hard thrusts, forcing Brendon's hips up until it was just the right angle, enough for the world to fade to blurriness and sparks of light and Ryan's face intent above him. Brendon twisted and met each thrust with his hips, pressing up onto Ryan's cock and ah, fuck, Ryan was good at this, filling Brendon up with steady precision. Brendon wrapped one arm up around Ryan's back, pressing his hand against the skin between Ryan's shoulder blades, and lifted his head again, straining, until Ryan leaned down and kissed him, slumping a little too much on Brendon, squeezing the breath out of him.

"Hey, hey," Brendon managed to pant out, because Ryan would not fucking stop, licking almost desperately into Brendon's mouth. "Ryan, are you seriously al—"

"I'm _fine_ ," Ryan snapped, and then sat back on his knees between Brendon's legs, lifting his ass enough that Ryan could slam into it at just the right angle, hard and unrelenting, making Brendon cry out again and again beneath him. Eventually Ryan's rhythm began to get ragged, and he was pushing in deep and staying there, hips jerking, slumping forward to mouth curse words against Brendon's skin.

Brendon had barely time to feel disappointment, though, before Ryan pulled out and discarded the condom, then shimmied down and took Brendon's cock into his mouth, sliding three fingers into Brendon's ass at the same time, and that was it, Brendon was gone. He arched his hips and gasped out something luckily incoherent (because he had a feeling that anything he said right then would not be appropriate for first time sex). Ryan pulled off and pinched a handful of tissues off of Brendon's dresser, spitting his mouthful into that and chucking the wad into the same waste bin as the condom. Brendon raised his hand in what was an attempt at a caress and ended with him patting clumsily at the side of Ryan's head.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

Ryan shook his head. "S'cool," he said. He lay down next to Brendon and it felt a little surreal, Ryan stretched out lean and beautiful on his covers. Brendon ran his fingers down the bumps in Ryan's spine, and Ryan shivered and ducked his head, asked without looking at Brendon, "Can I stay here tonight?"

"Um," Brendon said, a little confused. "Of course."

They both moved, wriggling up and under the covers. Ryan lay on his stomach, face turned away from Brendon, but he didn't move away when Brendon curved against his side, nuzzled along Ryan's forearm. It figured, Brendon thought with sleepy amusement, that Ryan was one of those 'pass out immediately after sex' guys. Brendon didn't mind. He had Ryan Ross asleep and naked in his bed, with his mouth still tender and his ass pleasantly sore. They could talk in the morning.

Brendon was almost asleep too when his phone rang, inside his work trousers where he had left them crumpled in a corner of the room after getting home. For a moment, he couldn't bring himself to move, but that was the awful thing about his job – he had a horrible thought of Danny, post-surgery, trying to reach him, or Lucy sick again when her immune system still wasn't fully recovered. He forced himself up and out of bed, leaving Ryan breathing evenly under the covers.

His phone's glowing display flashed _Spencer_ at him, and he blinked. Spencer barely rang him with hospital business, but it was one in the morning and Brendon couldn't think why else Spencer might be calling him. He picked up and answered quickly, keeping his voice low and casting a swift glance back at the bed. Ryan was still fast asleep; Brendon's heart thumped almost painfully.

"Brendon?" Spencer sounded worried, speaking faster than usual. "Have you seen Ryan?"

"Um." Brendon turned and stared at the bed again, throat suddenly tight. "Why?"

Spencer made a rough, unhappy sound. "The ER was short tonight," he told Brendon. "Ryan got sent down there, and there was this three month old baby with a acute case of avian flu. The – Ryan was there almost immediately, but the baby died."

Something cold spread through Brendon's chest. "Fuck," he whispered.

"Yeah." Spencer sounded tired; Brendon could imagine him pushing his hand through his hair, pacing the floor. "Ryan's not used to – to death outside the surgery, I guess, and he took off really quickly. I'm worried he's going to do something stupid."

 _Too late_ , Brendon thought miserably, staring across the floor. "I'm – I'm sure he's fine, Spence," he said. He couldn't quite bring himself to own up just yet.

"Yeah," Spencer sighed. "I'm just worried. Okay, sorry, Brendon. Go back to sleep."

"Bye," Brendon said. Then he stood motionlessly, watching as Ryan tossed his head restlessly on the pillow for a moment. A moment ago, everything had been amazing. After a while, he crossed to his drawers and pulled on a pair of boxers, wincing a little. He climbed back into bed and watched silently as Ryan mumbled something in his sleep and stirred again, reaching around until Brendon slid up close to him. _Warmth is good for shock,_ Brendon thought, and let Ryan adjust Brendon as he liked.

He woke up expecting Ryan to be gone. It was a pleasant shock to find Ryan still fast asleep next to him, and some tiny flame of hope flared in his chest. He did a mental scan of the contents of his cupboard and fridge and swore under his breath, climbing carefully out of bed. He dressed as quietly as he could and left a note on his pillow that said: _Ryan – gone for a second to the store. Feel free to use shower etc. :) Brendon_. He thought about signing it with a heart, but he still wasn't sure, so he settled for the smiley.

There was a bakery down the street, and a coffee shop next door. Brendon bought Danishes and lattes and tried not to rush so fast that he spilled any on the way back to his apartment. He couldn't have been gone longer than fifteen minutes, but when he came back through the door, Ryan was kneeling on the floor, curly wet head bent over as he tied up his shoes.

"Oh," Brendon said, pulling up short. "Good morning."

Ryan raised his head. His face was blank and unreadable again, all of the desperation from last night vanished entirely. "Hello," he said, carefully.

"Um." Brendon held out the brown paper bag and the coffees gingerly. "I brought breakfast."

"I'm not hungry," Ryan said, adding, "Thank you, though."

Brendon swallowed. "Did you want to carpool to work?" he tried, eyes fixed on Ryan's face. Ryan looked uncomfortable. "I won't be long getting ready."

"I'd better head in," Ryan said. "There have been some cases of a strange virus. I have a feeling it's worse than it looks."

"Alright," Brendon said. He walked to the counter and put the food down. "I guess I'll see you later, then."

"Right," Ryan said, not looking very excited by the prospect. He edged quickly out of the room, and then paused at the doorway. "Thanks," he said again, awkwardly, and was gone before Brendon had time to react.

Brendon stood unmoving for a long time. Then he poured Ryan's coffee down the sink and forced himself into the shower.

Jon was waiting for him in the foyer when Brendon arrived. "Hey," he said quickly. "So, listen, a kid died of the flu last night, and there's been seven more cases brought in since then, four of which are critical, and the other three are going steadily downhill. Antibiotics aren't having much of an effect. We think it's a mutated gene. The diagnostician team are working on it, but until then it's all hands on deck."

"Okay," Brendon said. "Are they in isolation?"

Jon gave him an exasperated look. "Of course," he said. "We _are_ a hospital, dude."

"Sorry," Brendon said. He took a breath, mind racing. "I want no common staff between them and the paed-onc patients, okay? Make sure they're not even on the same floor. Except you and me. Let's go get clean."

"You're late," Jon said, on their way. "And no coffee?"

"I slept in," Brendon said. Jon glanced at him and then froze, before shoving him into the nearest free elevator.

"Holy shit," he said. "You look _awful_. What happened?"

Brendon shook his head. "Nothing," he said, but Jon folded his arms and looked insistent.

"Seriously," he said. "I – have you been crying?"

"No!" Brendon snapped. Jon looked a little hurt, and Brendon sighed, averted his gaze. "I slept with Ryan last night," he mumbled.

Jon sucked in a breath. "Ryan Ross?"

"No, Ryan Adams, he dropped by with his harmonica." Brendon scowled. "Come on. How many Ryans do we know?"

"But." Jon looked stricken. "Brendon, Ryan was a _mess_ last night. That baby who died—"

"I know," Brendon interrupted. His chest felt very tight. "I know, alright, Spencer called me. Just not until… after."

"Brendon," Jon said.

Brendon stared straight ahead of him. "He left earlier than me. He said thanks, though, so, y'know, at least he's polite."

"Brendon," Jon repeated, and Brendon tilted towards him and let Jon hug him, tight and warm. Then the elevator doors opened and Brendon stepped away firmly.

"Time to go," he said, and led the way.

The multidisciplinary emergency meeting that morning was not particularly dignified, but then, Pete Wentz was not a particular dignified Head of Medicine. Mostly there was a lot of arguing about causes and symptoms and what was to be done, and Brendon folded himself firmly in a corner and tried not to attract attention. This was, he was willing to admit, more than a little because Ryan was standing close to Pete, managing to look entirely aloof and at the same time intent on the problem.

There wasn't really a huge amount for Brendon to do to help the growing spread of the disease, anyway. After an initial couple of hours examining the younger patients for any hint of strange symptoms – almost entirely unlikely, but Pete was insisting on covering all their bases – Brendon was assigned to cover as many hours in the clinic as possible without neglecting his own patients, in order to relieve those who were needed around the clock for flu cases. He was left with strict instructions to be on constant alert for any and all symptoms of this new breed of flu, and as a result spent twice as long diagnosing the common cold patients as usual, on the lookout for any careless mistakes. He could feel another week and more of twenty hour days approaching steadily over the horizon.

"So I guess there's no James Bond tonight," Brendon said, and Jon laughed helplessly.

The day passed in a blur; Brendon left a little before midnight and barely made it onto his couch before he passed out, starving, but too tired to make himself any dinner. His alarm went off at five the next morning and before he knew what was going on, he was back at the hospital listening to the wails of sick children and the urgent whispers of the staff.

He looked hopefully at Jon, but Jon shook his head for no change. Upstairs, the hunt for a cure went on. Downstairs, Brendon rolled up his sleeves.

"We had two patients die in the last hour," Spencer told him in a low voice on their way to Brendon's office. "Both over seventy, both suffering from previous conditions, but there's fourteen people down with the flu now, including a long distance runner in her 30s who keeps crashing on us. We've been carrying out non-stop lung biopsies – I don't think Ryan's slept in two days."

Brendon blanched, couldn't help it, and Spencer looked at him, gaze softening. "Hey," he said. "Hey, I'm sorry, I – Jon told me."

"Because Ryan didn't." Brendon's voice sounded funny to his own ears. He hated to think of how it sounded to Spencer.

"Ryan's a selfish prick sometimes," Spencer said, with surprising vehemence. "Listen to me, Brendon. Ryan's my best friend and I love him but he's a selfish _fuck_ and you – you deserve better, alright?"

"That's not a very nice thing to say about your best friend," Brendon mumbled.

"Fuck Ryan," Spencer said. "You're my best friend, too. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Brendon said shortly. "Listen, I know that we're short-staffed, but you've gotta help me with – I can't have people going into the immunocompromised patients if they've been in the flu ward, you've got to back me—"

"I am," Spencer said. "They won't do it, Brendon. They won't risk lives like that."

"They're desperate," Brendon said. "I don't trust them." He opened the door to his office, letting them both in and checking his watch. "I've got Gemma Livingstone in here in five, then I'll go back to the clinic."

"'kay," Spencer agreed. "I'd say take your time, only, you know—"

"—don't," Brendon finished wryly. His gaze was drawn slowly to his desk, and the venti Starbucks cup resting there. He picked it up and twisted off the top, blinking. It was his usual order, a caramel hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows. "I thought Jon's shift didn't start for another hour," he said.

"It doesn't," Spencer said.

"Huh." Brendon stared at the drink for a moment and then shrugged, pushing the lid back on. "Okay, I'll see you in a bit."

"Good luck," Spencer said briefly, and left. Brendon lifted the hot chocolate to his mouth and drank. It was still hot.

"I need you to take some more nights on call, Brendon," Pete said, and Brendon tried not to groan. He had known it was coming – everyone who could manage it was taking on more hours, especially as the news of the flu spread through the city and paranoia along with actual cases increased rapidly – but he couldn't help feeling a little sick at the thought. He hadn't been in full crisis mode for a year, not since Lucy had last come down really ill, and even that hadn't been hospital wide. He wasn't used to the constant exhaustion yet, the busyness of everyone and everything. The moment he had more than two days off in a row, he knew, he was going to get so sick. It was gross. He was dreading it.

He didn't say anything, though, just nodded and made a mental note to bring spare clothes into the office tomorrow, so that he could sleep there if need be.

Pete looked exhausted, too, dark circles around his eyes, hair lying flat and dull on his head. Brendon didn't know him that well, but he was a good boss, and a good Dean of Medicine. There were recurring jokes about his tendency for sexual harassment but Pete was only ever like that around close friends, and never in front of anybody else. The only reason Brendon knew that the jokes had any foundation whatsoever was because Ryan and Pete were apparently good friends or something, and Spencer would sometimes tell stories about them, repeating their banter in a dry, long-suffering voice that was Jon's cue to get him coffee.

Brendon swallowed. He was busy and overtired, but he still managed to find time to feel sick and sad about Ryan. They hadn't spoken since that morning. Judging by the way he managed to vanish any time Brendon walked into a room, Ryan didn't want to.

Whatever. Brendon was a grown adult; he knew the aftermath of a one night stand when he saw one. He just wished he had known at the time.

"Thanks," Pete said, dragging him back to the present. He looked relieved. "I'll put you on admissions tonight, then. Can you start in an hour?"

"Sure," Brendon said, and went off to nap on a couch for forty minutes before then. The couch in the staff room on the fifth floor was closer, but when he was just outside the door he saw a lean, painfully familiar form inside, and went on to his office instead.

He got off at eight that evening, nearly nineteen hours since he'd started, and called his parents on the way into his apartment. His family had been taking it in turns to email him constantly about his holiday plans since Thanksgiving, and he guessed that it had been long enough of avoiding the whole question.

His mom answered, delighted as always to hear from him, her voice happy enough to make Brendon feel guilty. She asked almost immediately how he was. "We've been watching the news," she said. "That flu is all over it. Everyone's terrified it's going to spread."

"So far they've been doing a good job containing it," Brendon told her, knuckling at his eyes tiredly. "You're safe for now. There's a lot of work being done searching for a vaccine. Hopefully it won't last for much longer."

"Thank God," his mom said, and Brendon caught his hand just as he lifted it to cross himself. "You stay safe, honey."

"Doing my best," Brendon said.

"That's what I like to hear," his mom said. "Now, what are you planning for Christmas?"

Brendon swallowed, throat suddenly tight. "I have to stay here, Mom," he said. "You know that."

"I wish I didn't." Her voiced sounded suspiciously close to trembling. Brendon stared at the floor. "Six years you've been working at that hospital, and you've only been home for Christmas once."

"It's a busy job," Brendon said. "I'm making a difference. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"Yes, and I'm proud of you," she answered, and sniffed loudly. "I just miss you."

Brendon looked up, and met the dark eyes of his reflection. "Miss you, too," he said, and listened to his mom trying not to cry.

After he hung up, he stood in front of his mostly empty fridge for a few moments and stared at the milk that had gone off, the wilted vegetables. Another second and he cursed, whirling away and snatching his keys off the table. It was seven hours until he had to be at work again, and he hadn't slept longer than four in a week. He got in his car anyway.

Shane smiled at him when he opened the door, and Brendon tried not to fall over the front step. "Hi," he said, voice frayed. "Mind if I crash here tonight?"

"Do I ever?" Shane asked, and ushered him in. "You eaten?"

"Nope."

"You're in luck." Shane waved the phone in his hand at Brendon. "I was just about to order pizza. Think you can stay awake until it arrives?"

"I'll do my best," Brendon said, sprawling over the couch. "Fuck, my vision's gone all blurry."

"Should I be writing down symptoms?" Shane grinned at him, dialling the number of their favourite pizza place.

"Nah," Brendon said. "But you should feel free to give me a massage and ease my pain."

"Nice try. That's boyfriend stuff," Shane told him. "All I can do now is give you noogies and say 'no homo' a lot. Hey, yeah, could I get a family sized vegetarian and a jumbo ham and pineapple?"

"And a coke," Brendon added, a little croakily. He closed his eyes and flung one hand out, experimenting with being a heroine like in the Georgette Heyer novels Spencer thought no one knew he read.

"Vanilla coke," Shane added, and passed a hand idly over Brendon's hair as he wandered past the couch. Brendon hummed something content and pushed back into the touch, listening to Shane rattle out the address.

He was almost asleep when the pizza came, but Shane nudged him upright and once he'd stirred properly he found that he was ravenous, wolfing down four slices without pause for conversation. When he finally slowed down, Shane was watching him with a mix of kindness and amusement.

"How you doing?" he asked softly, nudging at Brendon's thigh with his toes.

"Alright," Brendon said. "Tired."

"Yeah," Shane agreed. He hesitated and then asked, "And what about Ryan Ross?"

Brendon closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders back. He reached for another slice of pizza and said, "Ryan Ross is the least of my worries, dude, seriously."

"I don't believe you," Shane said. For a moment, Brendon bitterly regretted telling Shane about that night at all. Shane had been furious and sympathetic on his behalf, had known exactly what to say and then said it, had offered to come over and would have, if Brendon had had space to breathe between shifts, and basically been everything an awesome best friend should be. Still, it meant that Shane knew, and talked about it, and even thinking about that night made Brendon want to sag ridiculously into a little heap under his covers. He was so _embarrassed_.

Maybe Shane caught some of Brendon's discomfort, because he sighed and said, "Never mind. You want the spare room?"

"Please," Brendon said, relieved, and Shane packed up their food and sent Brendon to bed. Brendon was only too happy to obey.

"I haven't slept," Spencer declared, with no small amount of pride, "in thirty hours."

"That's because you're a show-off," Jon told him, and Spencer eyed him balefully for a moment before reaching out and managing to snatch Jon's coffee off him without spilling a drop. Brendon was kind of impressed, but Jon gaped for a moment and then scowled, putting his hands on his hips. "That," he said, "was mean."

"Your mom," Spencer said snidely, and took a large gulp of the coffee.

"Ah, what joy it is to watch a great wit at work," Jon said.

"Who?" someone asked quietly, and Brendon made an embarrassing choking noise, abruptly focusing on adjusting the sleeves of his white coat. He didn't really need to; Ryan wasn't paying any attention to him.

"Me," Spencer answered. "What's up?"

"I need you in surgery," Ryan said. "Last one, I promise, then you can go home."

"Why thank you, O High and Mighty Boss," Spencer said. "Lemme just finish my coffee."

"Alright," Ryan said. He looked kind of awkward, hugging a pile of paperwork to his chest, and Brendon knew a cue to leave when he saw one. He wished, a little tiredly, that Ryan would get over not wanting to be around Brendon soon. Brendon didn't like having to share his friends like this. He drained the last of his own cup and tossed it in the bin, anyway.

"I'm off," he said, and then added, "Oh, but, Spence, I was at Shane's last night and he said to tell you that he's going to start filming that movie this Friday, if you're still in."

"Cool," Spencer said, while Jon snickered.

"Seriously, Brendon," Jon said. "Are you back to crashing on your ex's couch again? I didn't think you were _that_ tired, to," and then he cut off, blinking at where Ryan had disappeared in a flurry of paperwork. "Um," Jon said.

"Sorry," Ryan mumbled, gaze on the floor. His cheeks were slightly pink. "I slipped, one sec."

Jon stooped to help, and after a moment's hesitation, Brendon joined them, kneeling on the floor beside Ryan and gathering the papers together in tidy stacks. "Here," he said, holding them out awkwardly.

"Thanks," Ryan said, and took them without looking at or touching Brendon. His hair had fallen in his eyes, cheeks still red, and it made him look younger than usual, young like he'd been asleep in Brendon's bed. Something small and painful caught in Brendon's chest, and he stood up.

"Bye," he said, and left without waiting for replies.

He was actually pretty proud of his success in sleeping in his office for a few hours in between long, _long_ shifts without anyone noticing. He wasn't sure whether their initial reaction would be to laugh at him or pity him, but he didn't particularly want either reaction. For a while, he had been a master at making his office look unoccupied while he caught up on sleep without Spencer yelling at him to go home. He must have left the door ajar one afternoon, though, or a light on, or something, because he woke up to the sound of the door closing quietly behind someone as they left Brendon's office.

It was somewhat of a surprise to realise that rather than any laughter or pity, there was a blanket draped over him, and a box of Chinese food on his coffee table. He reached for it, blinking, and stared half-asleep at the scrawled post-it note stuck to the top that said simply, _Don't forget to eat_. The handwriting was vaguely familiar.

For a moment he couldn't get his brain to function. Then he opened the box and realised at first sight of the vegetarian fried rice that he was _starving_. He ate it in record time, shovelling it down in the way guaranteed to make Spencer stare in fascinated revulsion, and sighed once he was done. It was probably the most substantial thing he'd eaten in days.

He checked his watch; he still had a couple of hours before he should report 'fully rested' down to the clinic. The blanket spread over him was a patchwork one, with dark, vibrant colours and wildflowers, and it was really warm. Brendon slouched down and pulled it up over him, breathing it in. It smelled good, too.

Later, when he returned from the clinic to meet with a patient, the quilt was gone. There was a fresh daffodil sitting on his desk, though, and Brendon twirled it between his fingers for the whole consultation.

He hadn't really been listening during the meeting – once it was done, he could go home, and he honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in his own bed – and so when Jon nudged him suddenly, looking stricken, it took Brendon a few moments to tune in and understand properly what was going on. He blinked around and forced himself to listen to Wenham, even though the more he spoke, the more dread pooled in Brendon's stomach. He breathed deeply and stayed very, very still.

"It's just a complete waste of resources," Dr Wenham repeated. "I understand the concerns around the issue, but at the rate the virus is spreading, we really can't afford this sort of indulgence."

"It's not indulgence," Brendon said evenly. "It's quarantine."

"The flu patients _are_ in quarantine," Wenham said. "I simply don't see why your patients get this special treatment. People are sick all over the hospital and we're still struggling to find an effective way to combat the virus – I think it's the worst kind of pettiness for _you_ to have a special set of staff all to yourself."

Brendon curled his hands into fists under the table. "They're not for me, Dr Wenham," he said. "They're for a group of very ill children who are undergoing radiotherapy and simply cannot be subject to a killer virus like the one we've got on our hands."

"Urie, the flu patients are in clean rooms," Wenham said. "The staff are making sure to be clean whenever they walk in and out. There is only the smallest possibility of an infection from the virus—"

"The smallest possibility is way too much!" Brendon turned to Pete, who was watching the scene unfold impassively. "These kids are dying, or recovering from nearly dying, and I _won't_ let you put them in danger."

"You might not have a choice," Wenham said. He scrubbed his face with his hands, exhausted but determined. "Dr Urie, this hospital is short-staffed. We need as many people working with the flu patients and in the clinic as possible. We can't afford special treatment like this, and I'm sure the other departments agree with me. If necessary, I will put it to a vote."

" _No_ ," Brendon said. "Pete, you can't allow this."

"Dr Wenham raises fair points," Pete said tiredly. "I don't like it any more than you do, Brendon, but perhaps the risk is worth it. Just think, if the extra staff can afford us a breakthrough—"

"They won't," Brendon interrupted. "They can't, come on, everyone knows that's just wishful thinking. Look, I'm doing my best—"

"No one has called your work into question, Dr Urie," Wenham said. "You are, of course, as clearly dedicated as ever. But your best efforts cannot replace some dozen or so qualified doctors and nurses."

"If those kids die," Brendon said.

"They won't," Wenham said. "We're professionals. The risk, tiny as it is, does pale in comparison to the potential benefits—"

"It really, really doesn't," Ryan said, and Brendon's head jerked up. Ryan had been slumped in a corner of the room for the past hour without saying a thing; now, Brendon stared speechlessly at him as he struggled upright and then gave up, leaning back against the wall. There were dark circles under his eyes.

"I'm sorry?" Wenham asked coldly, and Ryan sighed, pushed a hand absently through his hair.

"This shouldn't even be a question of debate," Ryan said. "You can't risk exposing immunocompromised patients to a deadly flu we don't know how to fix. There."

"Ryan," Pete said.

Ryan shrugged. "Everyone's tired," he said. "And kind of desperate. Otherwise you wouldn't even be considering this. A dozen doctors from a cancer ward aren't going to find the cure, and the only thing they'd be bringing to the table is a couple of extra shifts. We can't risk patients' lives for the sake of a bit more sleep for the rest of us."

Brendon swallowed hard. Wenham glared and said, "Dr Ross, your concern is touching, but we're all professionals here."

"Really," Ryan said calmly. "I would have gone for 'arrogant morons', myself. You say potato—"

" _Ryan_ ," Pete repeated. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and said, "Is this really worth—"

"Yup," Ryan said. "And if you go ahead and do it anyway, me and half of the other surgeons are all going to take off on an unexpected vacation for a couple of weeks." Then he flashed a smile with too many teeth around the room and left quickly, the glass door rocking unsteadily behind him.

"Okay, then," Pete said, rolling his eyes. "I guess that's that. Dismissed, everyone."

In the flurry of movement that followed, Jon turned and gaped at Brendon. "What was all that about?" he asked. "That was – seriously impressive, God. Why did Ryan do that?"

Brendon shook his head. "I have no idea," he said, and curled an idle hand around his racing pulse.

Ridiculous and weird as it was, Brendon had kind of gotten used to the hot chocolate that he liked best appearing magically around the place. Generally it was left in his office, but sometimes he'd find one on the main desk in the clinic when he emerged from one of the examination rooms, a post-it note with _For Brendon_ neatly attached to it. Less frequently, two or three times a week, there would be meals, too, always vegetarian, always hot, always yummy. Once, there was a refill of jellybeans for the jar that sat on his desk. Brendon had only just noticed that he was almost out.

"I don't know whether to be creeped out or charmed," Brendon told Jon in the cafeteria line one day. "I mean, it is pretty weird. They know all my orders."

"Stalking is the highest form of flattery?" Jon suggested, and Brendon laughed.

"Could be," he agreed, and then said, "It's sort of stupid to get a crush on someone you don't even know, right?"

Jon opened his mouth and then shut it again, looking confused. He peered over his shoulder. "What is it?" Brendon asked.

"Did you hear a crash or something?" Jon asked. Brendon shook his head, and Jon shrugged. "Never mind. Come on, let's grab a table."

When Brendon got back to his office, there was a can of Red Bull on his desk and a Spencer in his chair. Brendon beamed at both of them. "Awesome," he said, popping the top of his can open. "They'd run out of these downstairs, and I was craving one."

"What a helpful creepy stalker you have," Spencer said dryly, and Brendon rolled his eyes.

"You're just jealous," he said.

"You caught me," Spencer said, clearly bored, and Brendon laughed and sprawled across his sofa.

"So, what's up?" he asked. "I've got Lucy coming in for a check-up any minute now, did you need something?"

"Just killing time," Spencer said, standing up. "I was meant to be going home now, but Ryan managed to give himself, like, third degree burns from coffee in the cafeteria line, so I'm covering his next op. Why is Lucy coming in again so soon?"

"Her mom wants her to start school after Christmas," Brendon said. "I want to keep an eye on her for a while, make sure she's not overdoing it."

"Fair enough," Spencer said, raising a weary hand in salute. "I'll see you later."

Lucy was ten minutes late, which was unlike her mother. When she arrived finally, though, she was tugging her father behind, and both of them looked a little sheepish. "Dad got lost," she explained, and Brendon rose a little awkwardly to greet them. Lucy's father worked a lot, and Brendon did not know him half as well as he did Lucy's mother. It was a fairly short meeting, though, which was good – Lucy looked well, bright-eyed and cheerful, and Brendon filled out another prescription and let them go. He left early, too. It was a pretty nice day.

Brendon was woken up at two in the morning by his phone ringing. It was Jon, his voice urgent.

"You've got to come in right now," Jon said, and Brendon was already up and out of bed, scrambling for clothes, before he asked Jon what was wrong. When Jon replied, he froze, and stood motionless in the room for a long time. "Brendon?" Jon said. "Brendon? You there?"

"Yeah, I'm on my way," Brendon said in a low voice, and hung up.

He pushed the speed limit the whole way to the hospital, darting vengeful looks at the cameras keeping him from breaking it entirely. He pulled into his parking space dangerously fast, wheels screeching, and rushed in through the doors so fast that he slammed into someone else making their way out.

"Hey, whoa," Ryan said, steadying Brendon's shoulders. Normally, Brendon would be freaking out at the contact, but now, he barely registered it, blinking at Ryan's hands on his shoulders like he wasn't quite sure where they came from. There was a gauze bandage wrapped around the heel of Ryan's left palm. "What are you doing here?" Ryan asked, blinking at him. He looked exhausted, dark circles around his eyes. "You're not meant to be in for hours."

"Lucy's got the virus," Brendon said, and shouldered past.

Jon was waiting for him in his office. "When did she get in?" Brendon asked.

"An hour ago," Jon said. "Started displaying symptoms at around six o'clock tonight. Brendon. It looks like an advanced case."

"Let's get to work," Brendon said.

At six that morning, he returned to find warm milk and a cookie on his desk, with a note that said _no caffeine for you. spare bed in room fifteen. SLEEP._

Brendon ignored the warm milk, ate the cookie, and headed back to the lab. Jon was taking too long; he went to the lab and watched Jon analyse Lucy's blood and plasma samples when he really should have just called, hated standing around waiting to see how fast the spread of the virus was. When he came back to his office, the milk had been replaced with another paper cup and a note that had _MORON_ scribbled on it. Brendon popped the lid; it was hot coffee this time, steaming and rich. He drank it all and left for Lucy's room again, knuckling sleep out of his eyes.

 _Spencer drove him home at midday. "Sleep," he told Brendon. "Eat something. Take a pill if you need to. You can't help Lucy if you're too wrecked to think straight."_

 _"Spencer," Brendon said. "I can't help Lucy at all."_

 _"You're one of the best doctors I know," Spencer said. "Don't be stupid."_

 _"You don't have to console me," Brendon said. "Eleven people have died of this thing so far. Six of them were children. All of them had immune systems."_

 _"Lucy—"_

 _"—has maybe a twenty-five percent chance," Brendon said, staring straight ahead of himself. "_ If _we find an anti-viral in time. Guess you were right. I shouldn't have gotten so attached."_

"Brendon," Spencer said, helpless.

"Thanks for the lift," Brendon said. He didn't take a pill, though he did sleep until nine that night. Then he went straight back in and worked until five the next day.

Lucy was deteriorating fast. Her response to any antivirals was even smaller than the other patients, and Brendon found himself prescribing her every new antiviral he could think of, from anti-pseudomonals to tazosin, in a somewhat desperate bid for more time. Her parents barely left her side, and Brendon heard them talking in low, broken whispers, Lucy's father talking about Lucy befriending an old man with a bad case of the flu when they had gotten lost the other day. Brendon felt very far away from everything.

He was dimly aware and grateful for Jon and Spencer gathering around him, doing what they could. Even Ryan seemed to be around more, hovering a little awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, asking now and then how Lucy was going. Brendon knew that normally, that would have made him quietly, wistfully happy, or at least clumsier than usual, but he was having a hard time noticing anything at all. Mostly he answered Ryan with brief, tired sentences, or on one occasion, when Ryan asked if he had tried a new anti TNF-agent that was having some effect on the other patients, with a snapped, "Yes, thank you, I _do_ know how to do my job."

Ryan flushed. "Sorry," he mumbled, and Brendon shook his head and fell into step beside Jon.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Cafeteria," Jon said. "It's lunchtime. Did you forget again?"

"Not really," Brendon said. "I've already eaten, anyway. Mystery Dude left lasagne on my desk about an hour ago."

"You know it's a guy, then?" Spencer asked.

Brendon shrugged. Everything felt very irrelevant to him, except Lucy and the illness destroying her small body. He forced himself to answer, anyway. "Handwriting seems like it," he said. "But dude's kind of gender neutral by now, isn't it? Anyway. I've eaten. So."

"Eating is good," Jon said, gently. "Was the lasagne nice?"

"Yeah," Brendon said. He rubbed his eyes and tried to smile. It felt awful, and more than a little wobbly. "It's kind of lame, right, that like, those things are pretty much the only things getting me through the day?"

"I don't think you're lame," Jon said.

Brendon shrugged again. "I'll see you later," he said, and took a left. He was vaguely aware of someone watching him go, but he couldn't find the energy to turn and see who it was.

On Friday, Jon and Spencer dragged him out to their favourite restaurant. "We thought we'd go to a movie afterward," Spencer said, and Brendon forced a cheerful smile on his face at their twin hopeful glances.

"I heard they were flying in some specialists soon, for the virus," Jon began, but Spencer glared at him.

"Can't we talk about something other than work, Jonathan?" Spencer asked pointedly, and Jon made an appropriately contrite expression and started to talk about the latest show Tom's band was playing, how they should go, all three of them, get away from the hospital for a while.

Brendon nodded and agreed but he couldn't concentrate on the conversation at all. Spencer had to nudge him twice before he remembered to give the waiter his order, and he had trouble catching more than one word in five. The conversation seemed to move too fast, and he could barely get the hang of one thread before they were on another. He was halfway through his meal before he noticed it arrive, but it didn't taste like anything in particular. With Jon and Spencer determinedly cheerful opposite him, it was all he could to do to keep his gaze on them, and stop it from drifting out the window.

"Brendon," Jon said, with a hint of impatience, and Brendon dragged his attention for the umpteenth time back to them.

"Sorry," he said. "What?"

Jon's face fell. "Jesus, dude," he said. "Are you going to be alright?"

"Sure," Brendon said. "I'm not the one who's dying."

"Fuck," Spencer said. He hooked his ankle around Brendon's under the table, faintly comforting, but from a long way away. Brendon managed a small smile at him.

"They're saying these new doctors are really good," Jon offered. "I knew one of them in med school – they're based in New York now, but he used to be really nice. And he's a brilliant doctor."

"There are a lot of brilliant doctors here, too," Brendon said. "But our diagnostician team can't solve it, and the patient I promised was going to school has a few days left, maybe."

"Brendon," Jon repeated. Brendon smiled weakly at him.

"Sorry," he said again. "I know I'm not much company at the moment. You guys should go to that movie. I'm going to catch a cab home."

"Come on," Spencer said, peeling a few bills from his wallet and chucking them on the table. "We'll take you back."

No one really spoke on the drive to Brendon's place. On Saturday, Brendon told Lucy's parents that she had days. He wasn't asked to clarify.

It was cold outside, but Brendon couldn't bring himself to go back inside again, and once he was past the carpark he stopped noticing it, anyway. There was a large park just next to the hospital, and at this time of year it was mostly deserted. Brendon wandered along the path and eventually sat on an empty bench and ate the apple he had brought for lunch. He didn't have much of an appetite these days.

He almost didn't hear the footsteps crunching in the gravel underneath the snow, not looking up until they were practically on top of him. When he did look up, he stared for a moment without really making a connection between Ryan Ross standing in front of him and, well, _Ryan Ross_.

"Hey," Ryan said. "You forgot your coat."

He held the forgotten coat out. Brendon had left it draped over the back of his chair in his office; now, he blinked at Ryan and watched with absent fascination as a slow flush spread over Ryan's skin.

"My office is up there," Ryan said, pointing to a window. "It looks out onto the park." He shrugged. "It's really cold, Brendon. You should wear your coat."

 _I love you_ , Brendon thought, and took the coat, pulling it on. _It kind of sucks that that doesn't help anything, not even a little bit._

"Thanks," he said.

"Can I sit down?" Ryan asked. He was speaking very quickly.

Brendon shrugged. "Knock yourself out."

Ryan sat down next to him. If either of them moved only a tiny amount, their shoulders would be pressed up against each other. Brendon didn't move.

"I'm sorry about Lucy," Ryan said.

"It's not your fault," Brendon answered automatically.

"It's not yours, either." Ryan sounded very sure. Brendon thought that was kind of arrogant of him to decide so easily, so he didn't say anything. After a moment, Ryan exhaled heavily, breath clouding in front of him. "It's not as though—"

"Why are you talking to me?" Brendon asked. He was too tired and too defeated to be able to do anything but speak his mind, any filter he had once had long gone, and that wasn't such a good thing to do to Ryan. He had already embarrassed himself around Ryan enough for the rest of his life.

Ryan flinched. "I – I want to," he said. "I – you're going through a rough time, and I—"

"You don't have to worry about me calling in a debt or anything," Brendon said. "I think I've got enough control not to jump the nearest warm body if someone I'm caring for dies."

"I didn't," Ryan stammered. "I mean, you weren't—"

"It's alright," Brendon said. "You can stop hanging around and looking guilty, too. I've had people do worse things than fuck and run."

Ryan looked at him, silent and stricken. Brendon stood up.

"Thanks for bringing my coat," he said, and started back for the hospital, hunching his shoulders against the wind. There was a block of chocolate waiting for him on his desk, with a red ribbon tied around it and a note that said, _merry christmas xxx_ , which was the only way Brendon remembered what day it was.

Brendon was woken up at seven AM on Boxing Day by Pete calling him. "H'lo?" he mumbled. He was pretty sure that if Lucy – that Jon would be the one to call him. Something tightened in his stomach. He was _pretty_ sure.

"Hey, Brendon, I need you to come in," Pete said briskly. "The specialist team from NYC wants to talk to you."

"'Kay, I'm on my way," Brendon said, and struggled out of bed. Pete hadn't told him to be particularly fast, so he let himself have a shower, even washed his hair. Probably it was a good idea to be vaguely presentable for a team of extra special doctors, anyway. Brendon thought about having some breakfast, but then the image of Lucy, tiny and white in her hospital bed, came unbidden into his head again, and what small appetite he had was gone.

He ran into Spencer in the carpark. Spencer looked at him unhappily. "You're not on until this afternoon, Brendon," he said, by way of greeting. "You're going to kill yourself, working like this."

"Pete called me in," Brendon said. "Apparently the specialists want to see me. You just starting your shift?"

"Yeah," Spencer said, and stared at him. "Why do the specialists need to talk to you?"

"No idea," Brendon said.

"Hi, Dr Urie," the Alex at the front desk said. "Doctors Beckett and Saporta are waiting in your office."

"I'll come with you," Spencer decided.

Doctors Beckett and Saporta were potentially giants, Brendon thought, pulling up short in his doorway. They both turned as one to grin at him, and then stare.

"Wow," said one. "Where's Snow White?"

The one with the scarf tied around his knee – and Brendon couldn't even fully compute the levels of _what the fuck_ to do with that just yet – tilted his head and regarded Brendon curiously. "Are you Grumpy or Mopey?" he asked, and then laughed as Brendon felt Spencer bristle beside him. "Oh, alright, he's Grumpy."

"Um," Brendon said. "One minute, Spence," and shut the door very gently on him. He swallowed and turned back to the pair. "I'm Dr Urie," he said. "You wanted to see me?"

"Hi," Dr Scarf said. "I'm William. This is Gabe. Lucy Wu is your patient, yes?"

"That's right," Brendon said, taking an involuntary step forward, chest tight.

"Okay," William said. "Well, you're going to have to give her ondansetron along with the new course of antivirals, because they can have unpleasant side effects on radiation patients. We don't want to further hurt her immune system. And she'll have to stay in observation for at least another week after the virus is fully gone from her system."

"Wait," Brendon said, bewildered. "I – when the virus is gone? What new antivirals?"

"They didn't tell you?" Gabe looked surprised. "We found the root of the virus, it's quite curable. We would have come sooner, but we were in Uganda with Invisible Children and only just got the news. It's actually a related strand to a virus we studied a few years ago." He turned to William and said, "Dude, I don't think there's a dwarf called Mopey."

"Sure there is," William said. "Dopey and Mopey."

"The virus is gone?" Brendon's head was spinning. "You mean – everyone's just going to get better?"

"Yup," William said. "We're working on a bivalent vaccine, too, but for now everyone's on the prescribed course, and most people should be ready to leave in a few days."

"It's just Dopey," Gabe insisted. "Seriously, no Mopey."

"Mopey's the sad one!" William said. He smiled at Brendon. "Nice meeting you, Dr Urie. Good luck with everything."

They opened the door and left, Gabe counting out dwarves on his fingers. They turned the corner, and Brendon blinked as William's plaintive, "but there _should_ be a Mopey," drifted back to them.

Spencer stared at him, and Brendon stared back. "Well?" Spencer said. "What was all that about?"

Brendon felt the first stirrings of dizzy relief uncurling in him, his heart soaring, chest light, stomach right where it was meant to be, grin broadening.

"Come on, let's go get some food," he said. "I'm _starving_."

For the next few days, the hospital continued to be just as busy but in an entirely different way, a whirlwind of energy and hope and laughter. On the third day, Lucy sat up and was able to open her presents, including the doctor's kit Brendon had assembled for her; on the fourth, she was already complaining about being bored. Brendon brought his guitar in and spent a few hours by her bed playing every song in his repertoire, and a few besides, until Jon came in and joined him, and Spencer reluctantly found a tambourine. Brendon even thought he saw Ryan once, but when he looked up, the doorway was empty.

He was a little disappointed that the vague sense of distance in thinking about Ryan had dissipated as easily as the virus had in the end, but in the same way, he was glad to have the fluttering feeling in his heart and stomach back, too. Loving Ryan was a lot like being alive, and knowing it. Even if Ryan had gone back to avoiding him.

On New Year's Eve, the Mystery Dude left a bottle of champagne on Brendon's desk, which Brendon drank with Shane and Jon, sitting around on Jon's balcony and passing glasses and a joint back and forth. They made several thousand toasts, giddy and exhausted, and Brendon announced very loudly his resolution to _find my Mystery Dude!_ and then, in his head, and much quieter, _and thank him_.

The world was bright and clear. The hospital still had everyone on double shifts, but Brendon was the good kind of tired, worn out and cheerful and sleeping heavily and well. He even flirted a little with one of the paediatricians, a guy a year or two older than him, who had dark hair and dark eyes but didn't look much like Ryan at all. He smiled a lot, for one. Brendon thought that maybe after all the disastrous events of last year, now might be a good time to end that particular era of his life, too. Even if he hadn't proven to be very good at doing that before.

He was, surprisingly and continually, happy.

Somewhere along the line, he had picked up the habit of taking naps in whatever space of time he had free at work. It meant he could spend more time in the clinic, and still be awake enough to hang out with his friends afterwards. It was just an unfortunate setback that it was possibly the least dignified sort of activity he could do, especially when he gave in to the lure of the comfortable couch in the staff room.

Besides, Brendon's Mystery Dude continued to have a somewhat disturbing (but also kind of sweet) talent for finding Brendon and covering him with the same blanket, which continued to be warm and smelled nice. Sometimes Brendon would wake with the lingering feel of long fingers pushing hair off his face, but when he opened his eyes there was never anyone there.

Until the afternoon he woke in the staff room, curled up on the couch with the blanket warm and tucked around him, to see Spencer staring at him.

"Blargh," Brendon said, sitting up with a start.

"Dude, seriously," Spencer said. "Does Ryan know you stole his blanket? He'll chuck a fit if he finds out, he's all stupidly possessive about that thing. I think he made it himself or something."

Brendon wondered if he was still asleep. "This is _Ryan's_ blanket?"

"Um," Spencer said. "You didn't know that?"

"I – no!" Brendon's voice felt squeakier than usual. "No, I – this is the blanket Mystery Dude leaves for me!"

"Oh," Spencer said, and his eyes widened. " _Oh_."

Brendon got up, draping the blanket over an arm of the couch. "I've got to go," he said. He was suddenly feeling very itchy, and he really, really didn't want to sit down and have a big talk with Spencer and figure everything out. If it was even possible to do that now. If – holy fucking shit, Ryan's blanket. "Um," Brendon said. "I'll – we should probably talk about what's going on at some point."

"Yeah, no kidding," Spencer said, eyes still absurdly wide, and Brendon took off for his office. He had some paperwork he really had to get done, but concentration was going to be a little difficult now, and—

"Oof," Brendon said, when he ran straight into somebody coming out of Brendon's office. "Sorry, I – Ryan."

Ryan stared at him, his eyes huge. He looked a little like a rabbit caught in headlights. "Um," he said. "Hi."

"What are you doing in my office?" Brendon asked slowly. "Did you want something?"

"I was looking for you," Ryan said.

"Okay," Brendon said. "Here I am. What's up?"

"Um," Ryan said. "No, actually, sorry, I meant Spencer."

"Okay," Brendon repeated. He leaned to the side, despite Ryan's suddenly frantic, abortive movement, as if to block his view of the office. There was a very familiar cup of hot chocolate on his desk, and a white takeout box. "Fried rice?" Brendon asked.

"Oh, yeah," Ryan said. His voice was weirdly high-pitched. "Weirdest thing, right, I think someone left food or whatever on your desk, does—"

"So it was you," Brendon said. "All along, it was you, right?"

"I should go," Ryan said. He was staring at the floor, but his hands fluttered anxiously in the air, twisting in his shirt, fiddling absently with his tie.

"Okay, sure," Brendon said. "We'll just talk about you being my creepy stalker or whatever later, huh?"

"I wasn't creepy," Ryan said. It sounded automatic.

"You walked the halls looking for me every time I fell asleep," Brendon pointed out.

Ryan swallowed. "It wasn't like," he began, and then shook his head. "I mean. It wasn't meant to be creepy."

"Alright," Brendon said. He nudged past Ryan gently, into his office. "Want to tell me what it _was_ like?"

For a moment, Ryan looked as though he was about to make a run for it, standing taut in the doorway with his back to Brendon, lifted strangely upright on the balls of his feet, poised to flee. Then he turned around, and looked straight at Brendon, and Brendon blinked, because for a moment, more than anything else, the look in Ryan's eyes was like defeat.

"I don't know what to tell you," he said.

"You could, um." Brendon stopped and sighed, rubbed his eyes. He wished he'd had a little longer to wake up. "You could tell me why."

Ryan's mouth curled downward, tight and unhappy. "That's pretty obvious," he said. "Come on, don't be – don't make me—"

"It's not really that obvious," Brendon said. "I mean. I had no idea it was you."

"Yeah," Ryan said. "But. I don't think it's that difficult to understand why someone – why I would do it. I like you. That's all."

Brendon leaned back against his desk, heart beating very fast. "You don't really act like it," he said. Ryan flushed, and looked at the floor.

"I'm not good at that stuff," he mumbled. "I didn't know how to – and you're always, like, busy and happy and surrounded by a million people, and then that night – I wasn't thinking and afterward I was, I was so embarrassed—"

"Wait," Brendon interrupted, head spinning. "You mean the night we – you liked me _before_ that?"

Ryan looked up, face almost surprised. "I've always liked you," he said.

Brendon stared at him in disbelief. "Why didn't you _say_ anything?" he demanded. "I flirted with you for, like, two years! I seem to remember _asking you out_ a couple of times and you turned me down every time!"

"Oh," Ryan said, hugging his elbows to his chest. "I didn't – Spencer said, but I didn't think you actually – I thought you were like that with everyone."

"Jesus," Brendon said. He had the unaccountable urge to smash something. "You're a _moron_."

"Sometimes," Ryan agreed.

Brendon's pager buzzed at his hip, and he flicked it off, caught between staring in astonishment and glaring. He grimaced at the screen. "I have to go," he said.

"Alright," Ryan said, clearly relieved. "I'm sorry. I'll leave you alone now."

Brendon scowled at him, and thought about warning him with something cliché, growling _this isn't over_. Instead he picked up his hot chocolate from the desk and asked grumpily, "How do you know what I drink, anyway?"

"I pay attention," Ryan said, and let him leave.

"It was _Ryan_?" Jon said for about the eighteenth time in the past hour. Brendon folded his arms and glared.

"Yes," he said, for the eighteenth time.

"But that's—"

"Crazy," Brendon said. "Yeah." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I don't even know."

Jon shook his head, eyes wide and surprised, and then looked suddenly sly. "So," he said. "You don't _look_ like you just made out with someone. How much time did you get before Wentz called you away?"

Brendon blinked at him. "What?" he said. "We didn't do anything."

Jon gaped. "For real?"

"I was angry!" Brendon said. "And surprised! And angry!"

"Well, yeah," Jon said. "But you've also been in love with him for a million years, and you just found out that _he's_ been in love with you for a million years, and – you seriously didn't kiss him?"

"He didn't say anything about being in love," Brendon said, going crimson. "And besides, he's been such an asshole."

"Yeah, but at least now we know why," Jon said patiently. "It's kind of understandable, really. What if _you'd_ been building up the courage to, I dunno, try something with someone you really liked for years, and then accidentally slept with them when you were half out of your mind? I'd be pretty horrified."

"Um," Brendon said.

"And you've liked him for forever," Jon continued, building up stead. "And you had a massive crush on the guy leaving you presents, and now that's Ryan trying to apologise, or, uh, woo you without you noticing it was him, and you were _still_ too busy yelling at him to ask him out? I think you might be a bit of a moron too, dude, no offence."

"Um," Brendon said. He kind of agreed. "I'll – I've got to go."

"Finally," Jon said, rolling his eyes, and Brendon took off for Ryan's office. On the way, he passed by the OR and Ryan was in there, already operating, but Brendon went on to Ryan's office regardless, and made use of the pad of paper sitting on Ryan's desk.

 _Hello, dickface (Ryan),_ he wrote. _This is a non-anonymous note from me, Brendon (Boyd) Urie. I like you, too. If you are interested, I'm free on Friday (tomorrow) night. A date would be nice. Here is my cellphone number._ After a moment's consideration, Brendon added his address, too, and his email address. It was the least anonymous note ever. He was pretty proud of it.

Then he went home and made Shane come around and play video games with him until his stomach stopped fluttering. They ate takeaway Indian food and drank enough beer for Brendon to feel a little more relaxed, without having to worry about what state he'd be in for work tomorrow. After a while, they settled down to watch some mindless action, so that Shane could mock the shots and feel superior. Brendon was such a good friend.

His phone rang a little after nine. Brendon tried not to snatch it up too quickly, but in the end he found himself not really caring a huge deal.

"Hello?" he said.

For a moment, there was a distinctly nervous silence. Then a quiet voice said, "I could pick you up at eight?" and Brendon gave himself full license to kick back on his sofa and beam.

Work the next day was weird, but in a kind of awesome way. Brendon kept getting flashes of Ryan out of the corner of his eye, but he tried not to let it distract him, committing himself fully and with as much determination as he could muster to his clinic duty and then to the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

At one o'clock on the dot, he marched down to the Chinese shop around the corner and bought fried rice and Peking Duck. About two minutes after he'd paid, the door swung open again, and Brendon turned around and grinned.

"Beat you," he said.

Ryan shoved his hands in his pockets, looking a little embarrassed. There was a slight flush on his cheeks, and Brendon mentally gave himself leave to stare in fascination for a few moments. Ryan could deal.

"I was going to get lunch," Ryan said.

"I gathered," Brendon said cheerfully. "Only I think I owe you several billion lunches by now, and I'd like to get a head start, if you don't mind." He thanked the guy behind the counter and swung the bag back and forth in an enticing manner. "Come on," he said. "Let's go to your office, Jon won't think to look there for a while. I don't want him to steal my food."

"Alright," Ryan said. He looked a little taken aback, but fell into step beside Brendon anyway. After a moment, he said firmly, "I'm paying tonight. For dinner."

"Sweet," Brendon said. Ryan glanced quickly at him, and then away, and Brendon bit his lip. He really, really didn't want Ryan to be shy. He kind of felt like they'd wasted enough time. "So," he said, calling up a memory of the scant belongings on Ryan's office shelves. "I think The Beatles are a poor imitation of The Beach Boys."

Ryan practically stopped in his tracks. "What?" he demanded. "That's not even possible! And besides—"

They started walking again, and Brendon nodded and made appropriate listening noises whenever Ryan drew breath for air. They made it all the way back to Ryan's office without any sign of an end to Ryan's monologue, whereupon Brendon threw himself back onto Ryan's couch and nodded sympathetically.

Ryan stopped talking and eyed Brendon with sudden suspicion. "You did that deliberately," he said.

"I think Chuck Palahniuk is a cheap knock-off of Virginia Andrews," Brendon said, and Ryan burst out laughing, short and surprisingly sweet. Brendon grinned back at him stupidly and Ryan pointed a stern chopstick at him.

"Shut up and eat your lunch," he said.

"I'll go you halves," Brendon offered, and Ryan shuffled across the floor and helped scrape half of Brendon's rice into Ryan's box, and then carried pieces of duck precariously into Brendon's with his chopsticks. They ate in almost companionable silence, and nearly every time Brendon looked at Ryan, Ryan was busy sneaking a glance at him.

At half past one, Brendon laid his empty box aside and declared, "Okay, lunchtime's over." Ryan looked up and swallowed his mouthful before opening his mouth to speak, but Brendon cut him off, leaning in enough that their noses brushed. Ryan's mouth snapped closed, and he promptly went cross-eyed trying to look at Brendon. Brendon laughed softly, and didn't move.

"I have a consultation in ten minutes," Ryan murmured. His breath was warm against Brendon's lips. Brendon wondered exactly how far apart their mouths were, how much he would have to lean in.

"Okay," he said, and Ryan slid a tentative hand to curl up around Brendon's neck, holding him there without dragging him in, their foreheads pressed together. Brendon breathed in and out evenly, felt the world settle still around them, like it was waiting.

"Okay," Ryan echoed, and Brendon took a deep breath and drew away.

"I'll see you tonight," he said as he stood up, and Ryan nodded, watching him go, eyes slightly glazed. This time, Brendon let himself look back.

"Brendon," Jon said tinnily in his ear, "he's seen you in your scrubs after you haven't slept for thirty-six hours. He had sex with you when you were lazing around in front of the TV, and I bet you had on that shirt with the dubious stains. It really, _really_ doesn't matter what you wear."

"It does," Brendon insisted, pressing the phone between his ear and shoulder and staring in horror at the pile of discarded clothes at his feet. "Those times were different. This is a _date_."

Jon's voice took on a slightly shifty tone. "Look, Brendon, you shouldn't let society's expectations force you into anything you don't want—"

"No," Brendon said. "I think the definitive part of your one man campaign to make flip-flops appropriate footwear for all occasions has to be the 'one man' bit."

"You're no fun," Jon said. Then he sighed and said, "Okay, put on your black skinny jeans and that red v-neck shirt. That outfit is good."

" _Thank_ you," Brendon said, dropping the phone for a moment to pull on the required shirt, and then hopping from foot to foot and subjecting Jon to a series of grunting noises as he squeezed himself into his jeans. He beamed at himself in the mirror. "Awesome," he declared, and then, "Hey, Jon? Is the pink hoodie for luck overkill?"

"The pink hoodie for luck is _never_ overkill," Jon said solemnly, so Brendon put that on too, and then there was knocking on his door and it was ten to eight and Brendon fell over in his haste to put his shoes on, say goodbye to Jon, and answer the door, all in the same fifteen seconds.

When he did open the door, Ryan was wearing a pink suit.

"Oh, motherfucker," Brendon said.

Ryan bit his lip anxiously. "What?" he said. "I'm sorry I'm early, I'm usually always late, so I set my watch back an hour—"

"You're wearing a suit," Brendon said. "Are we going somewhere ritzy? I'll get changed really quick, just wait—"

"We're not going somewhere ritzy," Ryan said, smiling a little sheepishly. "I just like this suit. Don't get changed. You look nice."

Brendon looked at him and then smiled. "Well, let me get a new jacket," he said. "Or we'll clash."

"I don't think we clash," Ryan said, following Brendon into the apartment while Brendon stripped off his hoodie and hunted around for another. "I think if we're both in pink it means we match."

"That's even _worse_ ," Brendon informed him, picking up his grey jacket. Ryan laughed and led them out of the apartment, and put his hand on the small of Brendon's back as they went down the stairs, his palm warm and firm through the material. Brendon grinned stupidly, looking at his feet. It was already kind of the best date ever.

It was the worst date ever.

The restaurant Ryan took them to was not just ritzy, it was the kind of posh where Brendon felt like he was a dribbling imbecile the moment he walked in the door. People stared incredulously at his outfit, with the only bright spot being that Ryan got just as many weird looks. The maitre d' was rude and clearly homophobic, and they ended up waiting fifteen minutes for a table that Ryan had booked, that was right next to an open window with a freezing breeze. The food was the type to cost one hundred dollars, and it arrived cold.

Halfway through their meal, conversation had subsided entirely and they both sat in grim silence listening to the snooty jazz music, Ryan's face miserable as he pushed food around his plate. Brendon forced down another spoonful of his rice and then nudged a little at Ryan's foot under the table. Ryan pushed back, and Brendon drew in a breath and looked straight at him.

"Come on," he said. "Let's get out of here," and Ryan raised his head and gave Brendon a look of immense gratitude. They ended up splitting the cost of the meal between them – "You can buy me one that's actually enjoyable," Brendon told him, grinning – and hightailed it out of the restaurant and into Ryan's car.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said, still looking a little miserable. "That was meant to be – really good, or special, or whatever."

"It doesn't matter," Brendon said. "Come on, let's get some pizza and rent a couple of movies or something."

Ryan made a face. "Tonight was meant to be – I don't know," he said. "I wanted to make it up to you. For being. I don't know."

Brendon touched Ryan's hand lightly. "The gifts made it up," he said. "You heard me, didn't you? They pretty much saved my life."

Ryan looked at him almost shyly, eyelashes long and dark against his skin. "I'm glad," he said. "But." Then he stopped, and brightened. "Hey, alright. Do you trust me?"

"Sure," Brendon said, and Ryan turned onto the freeway.

After the initial surprise, it was kind of nice, just cruising along the road. Ryan had a good car, the drive smooth and seats comfortable, and after an hour or so Brendon felt himself dozing off, vaguely aware of the drive and Ryan's face painted in artificial colours by the lights of the freeway. He looked almost otherworldly, and Brendon reached out and rested his fingers against Ryan's hand, just lightly, just to make sure that he was there.

It was after midnight when Ryan finally pulled the car over. Brendon woke fitfully as the tires crunched over gravel and then something softer, and he opened his eyes to find Ryan unbuckling his seatbelt for him, their faces very close. "Hey," Brendon breathed, and Ryan kissed his cheek, the bridge of his nose, the corner of his mouth, lips soft and lingering. Brendon tilted up into his touch, the graze of Ryan's fingertips on his jaw.

"Come on," Ryan said quietly. "I want to show you something."

Brendon moved sluggishly, stretching out his legs and groaning at the pins and needles as he hit the ground. When he straightened, his eyes widened, taking in his surroundings and the clean, salty air for the first time.

"Jesus," he said. "How far did you have to drive to find a beach?"

"A way," Ryan admitted, and handed Brendon a blanket he had gotten from the trunk. Brendon wrapped it around his shoulders, Ryan following suit with one of his own, and they walked a little way down the sand before turning back. The wind was fierce, plucking insistently at their clothes and hair, so they ended up just perching on the bonnet of Ryan's car, with their shoulders pressed together and the waves crashing on the shore.

"This is pretty amazing," Brendon mumbled, and Ryan turned slightly to smile at him, eyes bright. They were already so close; it wasn't very hard at all for Brendon to lean in, for Ryan to meet him halfway. The kiss was slow and a little tentative, and then Ryan pressed closer and curled his cold hands around Brendon's, where Brendon was clutching the two halves of the blanket together, and Brendon sighed and opened his mouth, tilting his head slightly.

It was cold on the beach but Brendon didn't feel it anymore, the engine still warm beneath them, and Ryan slowly crawling closer, unhooking his own blanket and spreading it out when he put his arms around Brendon. It felt like a tiny world of their own, the last warm place on Earth, with Ryan breathing unsteadily against him and all of Brendon's being focused on Ryan, Ryan's mouth on his, Ryan's hair under his fingertips, Ryan gasping with shocked laughter when Brendon slipped cold fingers up under his shirt.

"Okay," Brendon admitted eventually. "This is pretty special."

"Hmmn," Ryan said, and nipped at Brendon's bottom lip, licked into his mouth, hot and luxurious. Then he sighed and pulled back, said, "We should probably head back, though. It's a long drive."

"Are you working tomorrow?" Brendon asked. Ryan shook his head. Brendon looked at Ryan's swollen mouth, the rapid rise and fall of his chest, and asked, "You maybe want to find a hotel?"

They went slow. Brendon had breathed something along those lines in Ryan's mouth, half-laughing, as they fumbled with the key card, and Ryan had apparently taken it to heart, which Brendon was regretting a little bit now, because holy fuck, no one could go slow quite like Ryan Ross could.

Brendon was beyond even embarrassment now, whining and pushing back against Ryan while Ryan kept him spread with one hand and licked him open, slow and maddening, adding a finger from his free hand on occasion, keeping Brendon stretched. Brendon pressed his face into the pillow, panting, and said, "Please, Ryan, _please_ ," and Ryan _hmmn_ ed again and pressed a light kiss against Brendon's skin, making him jump and curse, hips bucking forward involuntarily.

At some point he managed to say a little crossly, "Ryan, I really want you to fuck me, and if you don't do it soon I'm going to come, and that will be – that'll really suck for both, for both," and then Ryan twisted his tongue and anything else Brendon tried to say died off in a strangled moan.

Ryan laughed, but he was already moving up, pulling a condom on and slicking himself up. Brendon breathed in shaky and released it in a groan when Ryan slid slowly, steadily all the way in. For a moment, neither of them moved, Ryan entirely inside Brendon, hips pressed to Brendon's ass, chest to Brendon's back, and it was heavy, with all Ryan's weight on him, but Brendon gulped in deep breaths and thought _this is it, this is where I want to be_ , and when he reached around, Ryan was waiting to clasp their hands together.

"Umn," Ryan said, slightly out of breath. "I'm pretty sure you had something to tell me."

Brendon was pretty sure, too, but he had forgotten now, and he wasn't particularly interested in trying to remember. Instead he pressed Ryan closer to the desk and bit Ryan's bottom lip, a sharp reminder for Ryan to _please_ keep up with the new agenda. Ryan laughed breathlessly and then pulled away for a moment, hopping up onto his desk so that Brendon could step between his legs and kiss him again, closer now. Brendon beamed up at him. Ryan had the _best_ ideas.

"No, really," Ryan said, breaking away again. "You came in and said—"

"'I've got something to tell you', yeah, I know," Brendon said impatiently. "And then I changed my mind and jumped you instead. Keep up, Ross."

Ryan laughed again, and Brendon smiled sheepishly up at him. Ryan's whole face changed when he laughed. Brendon liked it a whole lot. He thought that maybe if he'd seen Ryan laugh properly enough before the past few months, he would have worked everything out sooner. Ryan's eyes went all warm and dark, entirely focused on Brendon. Brendon liked that a whole lot, too.

"Only," Ryan said, "we've already been caught three times this week. Hence the rule, you know, about keeping it in your pants at work."

Brendon was outraged. " _You_ were the one who," he began indignantly, but Ryan leaned in hastily and kissed him again, which was both awesome and slightly disappointing in that Brendon didn't get to do his great impression of Ryan Ross Attempting To Be A Pornstar: V. Blowjob Under Desk, which he was a master of, especially the bit where Ryan bumped his head.

Still, making out definitely won over funny impressions. Brendon was just attempting to add up hours and shift timetables in his head to see if he could maybe drag Ryan home when the door banged open, and Spencer said, "Oh my God, _guys_."

Ryan jolted and would have fallen off the desk if Brendon hadn't been there to steady him. Brendon groaned, and turned around.

"Why do you want to hurt me, Spencer?" he asked sadly, and Spencer rolled his eyes.

"This really has to stop," he said. "I get that you're happy about Lucy, but seriously, my _eyes_."

"Oh, right!" Brendon turned back to Ryan, grinning widely. "Lucy's starting school next week."

Ryan's face softened. "That's great," he said, and leaned in to kiss Brendon again, curling his fingers through the soft hair on the nape of Brendon's neck. Behind them, Spencer made a strangled, choking sound.

"Ryan," he said, voice strained. "We have surgery in five minutes. Hurry the fuck up." He slammed the door behind him.

Brendon pulled back and waggled his eyebrows at Ryan. "In five minutes, baby—"

"Please don't finish that sentence," Ryan said, and jumped off the desk, rolling his shoulders back and sighing. "I have to go."

"Yeah, I know," Brendon said. He pushed Ryan's hair back behind his ear and said, "I'm heading home in an hour."

"I know," Ryan said.

Brendon hesitated. "If you wanted to, I could leave a key out—"

"You're kind of dead on your feet," Ryan told him. "I think we can manage to go without for one night." He grinned, and Brendon grimaced. He thought he'd been totally stealthy about the whole exhausted thing. He'd forgotten Ryan's stalkerish tendencies. Ryan smiled, and then said, "I could, I could maybe come around and just. We could carpool to work tomorrow."

"Sounds good," Brendon said, and it did: finishing off the last of his work and heading home reasonably early to cook up a stirfry or something, leave half of it covered on the stove in case Ryan was hungry when he came in later. Brendon could eat in front of the TV and then have a shower, jerk off lazily and imagine Ryan in there with him, maybe on his knees in front of Brendon with the hot water rushing all around them like on the weekend, or the other way around, Ryan staring down at him, mouth open and breath hitching. And then bed, and ten hours sleep, only half-broken by Ryan crawling in next to him at some point, nuzzling Brendon awake enough to say good night, and kissing the spot under Brendon's ear that he was obsessed with; Ryan going to sleep pressed up against Brendon's back. Brendon would lie in the dark and drift back to sleep to the sound of their joint breathing. "I'll see you later," Brendon said.


End file.
